


nam omnia, quae aut amisi

by Trashatacular



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, F/M, alistair being boyfriend of the year really, bc why fuckin Not, emotional repercussions, murdering Howe done right, not an exceptionally happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 10:15:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15661182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trashatacular/pseuds/Trashatacular
Summary: Latin; “For all things I have lost.”Exacting justice and vengeance and the bitter aftertaste left in Evangeline Cousland’s mouth.





	nam omnia, quae aut amisi

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in intervals & finished it at 2:40 am so . messy ! wanted to write more of Cousland’s reaction to Howe & explore her thoughts at that moment + how Alistair helps her cope with it . also note that Alistair is hardened in this .

 

 

She didn’t enjoy the encounter with Howe the way she’d have liked to.

She was almost disappointed; hyped off the adrenaline of having wiped out much of his stronghold and having gotten this far, she would’ve liked to have remembered the look on his face as he died. She wished she could see his stupid fucking face in a permanent grimace until his skin would rot off of his bones. But instead, she could only stare at her hands as he coughed on his own blood in front of her; it felt as though time itself had stopped around her, and all she could hear was her heartbeat in her ears.

She remembered Rory Gilmore, the desperation on his face and the ghost of a love once felt lied in his eyes. The fiery hair against his pale skin and his jaw lined only with peach fuzz; she remembered being younger, all clumsy, goofy hands and moving lips in a broom closet at 18. She remembered the feeling of his heavy hands, holding hers, squeezing hers one last time before Duncan helped her escape. She would remember the howl of agony she heard in the servant’s quarters, distinctly Rory’s. 

She remembered her sister-in-law and nephew, meeting Oriana for the first time when she fell pregnant with Oren. She remembered her comforting gaze, her soft Orlesian accent and her gentle smile. She would remember when Oren was just a baby, eyes shut and face incredibly pinchable with the cutest button nose. She held him for the first time, his squishy and soft hands clenching and unclenching, yawning and looking up at her curiously with his big eyes. She would remember having snuck him sweets, spoiling him rotten even when he was in trouble with his parents and showing him a secret hiding spot inside the cupboard where they would eat all of Nan’s sweet rolls. She remembered the absent look in his eyes when she came across his body, the incision on his neck and the pool of blood he laid in, soaking then staining. Oriana laid nearby, blue-faced with her limp palms on her chest, bloody fingerprints on her neck.

Bryce’s face came to mind, remembering his kind blue eyes and greyed hair. Real father or no, he filled the role as best as he could. His guiding hands holding her, only 7 years old, reading slowly with her finger to the book by the candlelight; a candy given to her by him as a reward. A small smile when he watched her ride on the back of an Amaranthine Charger, gleeful and young and free. No candy that day. The disapproval in his eyes when he gazed upon the stitch on her forehead acquired from falling and hitting her head after spending time with Rory in the aforementioned broom closet, but nonetheless, a candy appeared on her pillow when she went to bed that night. The agony in his face as he clutched at the bloody hole in his abdomen, a pool of his own blood on the floor, his face impossibly paler than usually. His voice shook when he called her “pup” for the last time. No candy.

Eleanor. Eleanor’s calm blue eyes crinkling in the corners as she tucked her in. Tugging Mother’s braids, red hair bunched in her chubby tawny fingers and Mother’s hands guiding hers away. 6 years old, can’t pronounce her own name; “Evangeline.” “Evaline.” “No, Eh-vahn-jeh-lin.” “Eh-vah.” “I suppose it is close enough.” Hiding behind her mother’s skirt when Nan yelled, when strangers would come, when she was in trouble, hugging her leg tightly like she’d never see her again. Her mother’s hands on hers on the hilt of a greatsword, teaching and assisting as she swung upward into the dummy. Her mother’s disappointment at her blunt tongue, teaching her to be diplomatic yet manipulative, “a rose with thorns.” Her mother’s arms around her as she sobbed about the end of her and Gilmore, after she’d declared it amicable and mutually agreed upon. Her mother smoothing her baby hairs that night as she fell asleep; her soft voice murmuring, “Love is as forbearing as it is kind. It is humble and unostentatious, honorable and altruistic.” Her tears streaming down her cheeks as she held Bryce’s hand, pleading, begging for her only daughter to go, to flee with the father she’d never met and to leave her mother behind. To leave that life behind.

In that moment, Howe writhing in front of her, spitting blood on the ground and unable to even roll over onto his back, she was a bit disappointed. In her dreams it was a grand ceremony, in front of all of the nobility in Fereldan, all eyes watching her foot swing into his throat and stomp his brains in; slamming his head into the stone, disfiguring him to say, “It’s what he deserves and then some.” But no. No glory, no crowds, just a dank, dark dungeon with dead bodies everywhere and her with her party, all bruised and battered and angry. She rose, swiping blood from her split lip, swaying slightly from a concussion, but full of anger. How dare he deny her the simple satisfaction of beating his ass beyond recognition in front of the entire nobility of Ferelden?

“Maker spit on you...I...deserved more!” Howe’s venomous speech was slurred by the blood in his mouth, slamming his fist on the stone floor and glowering over his shoulder at her. She strode toward him, dropping her greatsword; Alistair made a sound in protest, but did not stop her. “I was to succeed where Bryce had failed. I was to bathe in riches, in Highever, sitting where your _coward of a father_ once sat, _my_ wife sleeping where Eleanor slept, _my_ children becoming the most powerful nobles in Ferelden! And _you_. You’ve ruined it all. You’ve invaded my castle and attempted to kill me. The gall!” 

“Attempted?” She questioned, standing over him. 

“You play the man so well, even you forget you are still just the scared little girl hiding behind your mother’s skirt. You don’t have it in you!” He accused haughtily. _Such strong words from a man spitting blood on the floor_ , she thought. And she laughed, a laugh that made the hairs on the back of Alistair’s neck stand up. Leliana watched on, an unreadable expression and hardened gaze. Even Zevran watched with bated breath, unsure. She kneeled beside his heaving figure, watching him for a moment or two.

“Oh. Bold assumption. But don’t I?” She responded in a strange voice, amused yet cold, something Alistair has never heard before. Before anybody knew what was happening, Evangeline grabbed his thin hair, slamming Howe’s head into the stone, Alistair cringing at the nauseating crack it made against the stone. He couldn’t watch, turning his head and listening to the sickening sound of her foot stomping onto his head until it no longer sounded like bone and sounded more like pumpkin innards being mashed. Alistair lunged at her, wrapping his arms around her to restrain her, lifting her from the ground and holding her tightly to him.

“Eva, he’s dead!” He exclaimed, walking backward from the corpse, her legs swinging wildly and fists pounding on his arms. He ignored the pain, and set her down, turning her to face him as he grabbed her by her forearms.

“Let go of me, Alistair! I’m not done! He has to pay, I have to make him pay for what he’s done!” She yelled, trying to turn around and finish what she started. “I’m not fucking done!”

“You’re done, Eva. H-He’s dead. There’s nothing else you can do, just look.” He pointed at the bloody mess where Howe’s head was, now just a mess of red and vaguely pink chunks, feeling incredibly sick but holding it down for her. And slowly she stopped struggling, her eyes resting on whatever was left of her family’s murderer. And it began to sink in. She could no longer hold herself up, slumping against Alistair and shaking, his arms wrapping around her tightly and holding her. She didn’t cry, couldn’t really, just stared at the mess she’d made, unable to speak and unable to move and partially unable to feel.

“Evangeline,” Leliana’s calm voice carried over, and Evangeline looked up to see her standing in front of her. “We have to go.” She told her, her hand touching Evangeline’s shoulder gently. Evangeline only stared past her and at a specific chunk of either skull or brain matter.

“Eva, love,” Alistair’s chest rumbled with the sound of his voice. She finally noticed he’d been running his fingertips along her hairline, carefully avoiding a gash that bled a trail down her cheekbone. “Leliana is right. It’s time to leave. When we get out of here, things will be alright. I promise.” He told her, wishing that he could say the worst was over. She nodded wordlessly, standing on her own two feet, and avoiding his concerned gaze as they made their way out of a dungeon.  

 

 

Things were not absolutely not alright when they got out of the dungeon. Shortly after, after an incredibly brief fight where Evangeline’s forehead gash was hit with the hilt of Ser Cauthrien’s sword and knocked her out, they were imprisoned in Fort Drakon. They sat in the dungeons, cold and barely clothed and barely fed. Not that it made much of a difference for Evangeline, who didn’t so much as look at the gruel. Eventually, Morrigan and Leliana rescued them and they made their way back to Eamon’s Estate, resting up. Alistair was content to leave her alone the first day, recognizing that she would speak when ready and that they both needed time to recuperate. The second day, however, he was antsy and anxious, watching her do nothing and say nothing; he would’ve thought she was dead if she didn’t periodically move a bit on the bed. He brought her breakfast, lunch, and supper on trays and wiped her face when she’d let him in the morning, but still nothing. On the third day, he felt like he might burst from the silence. 

“She’s still not down for breakfast?” Leliana asked at breakfast, spreading jam on a slice of bread as Alistair joined them with his plate.

“No. It’s like she’s not even here at all,” Alistair grumbled around his oatmeal. “She hasn’t bathed or spoken or even moved. She hasn’t even eaten.” He added.

“She’s not taking this well.” Zevran gave Alistair a serious look. 

“Well, yes, but why?” Alistair asked, setting down his utensils.

“Even _you_ have to understand,” Morrigan informed him, in a rather snarky tone.  “that her entire family was brutally murdered. She’s had no time to grieve. The man who murdered them has just been brought to justice by her hands and quite brutally, might I add. ‘Tis likely she’s overwhelmed. Even more, ‘twas likely not the closure she sought. And as utterly… _you_ as you are, you two are close.” He made a face at her, but she was still right.

“She needs you right now, Alistair.” Leliana clarified. He nodded, mulling it over as he ate. He wasn’t sure how exactly to be there for her more but he’d be damned if he didn’t try, especially since she was always there for him.

That night, he brought her baked potato soup for supper on a tray, setting it on the nightstand to the left of her as he sat beside her. She looked over at him as he entered the room, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge his presence.

“Eva,” He said finally and incredibly tentatively. When she didn’t even look at him, he continued. “Eva. Please say something. I want to hear your voice.” He pleaded, looking over at her. She didn’t stir, didn’t move, and after several minutes, he was ready to leave her be.

“His hair and scalp are under my nails,” She told him at last, her voice flat. He looked over at her, and she lay on her side, examining her fingernails. “I killed him and yet he’s still fucking here.”

“If it makes you feel any better, he’s on my boots too. And my sword.” Alistair tried, unsure of how to make her feel better.

“Why can’t he just die and be done with it? With me?” She inquired, seemingly to no one. 

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Alistair confessed honestly. “But I do know that killing him was...I can tell it didn’t give you the kind of...closure you were looking for.” He shrugged. She sat up beside him, the most movement he’d seen her do in two days; it was then that he noticed the dark rings around her eyes. Normally, the taint leaves dark circles but none so severe and deep.

“It wasn’t. At all,” she frowned. “I...Maker, this is going to sound awful-“

“This is the most you’ve talked in 2 days. Frankly, you could recite the Chant of Light and I would still be glad you’re speaking at all.” Alistair said seriously. She gave a short nod in response.

“I wanted him to suffer. He deserved it, didn’t he? For what he’d done to my family, to my life. And all he said was ‘I deserved better.’ Spiteful till the very end. I wanted to see him beg me for his life, beg for my mercy. And he didn’t,” she shrugged, looking quite empty. “And I think that’s what made it worst. It’s just not fair.” She finished.

“I...I know what you mean. Not exactly like that but I know. Loghain took almost everything from me, and...It’s frustrating to see him get so far with this whole thing he’s doing when we were there and are living proof of what actually happened. And now we’re here, and he’s not...scared, I guess is the best word for it. I guess it just feels unfair.” He replied honestly, remembering how incredibly angry and depressed he was for weeks after what happened at Ostagar. 

“Maker, I just...Will it ever stop feeling like this? Like he’s still there and in my head taunting me?” She asked, looking over at him and breaking his heart that he didn’t have better advice. He’d never considered himself to be somebody who was good at advice, not wise enough or experienced enough to give it in good conscience. He wished he could tell her that it would and that eventually she’d forget about all the pain he’d caused her and eventually, Howe entirely. But the world didn’t work like that at all, much to his dismay, and he could still feel that same upset from Ostagar in a pit in his stomach, never simmering past the surface but present nonetheless.

“No. I wish it did, Eva, but no,” he answered honestly; she took a deep shuddering breath, pressing her lips together and looking up so she wouldn’t cry. “It doesn’t, you just...I feel it less, I guess. It stops feeling like it’ll swallow you and you kind of learn to swallow it in return. But it’s always there.” He said, and she took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together; she didn’t look at him anymore, looking anywhere _but_ at him, still trying to be strong.

“I don’t have a home anymore,” She said simply, staring straight ahead with glassy eyes. “I have...no one to go home to, and no home to go back to when this is all over. I have no idea how to carry the family name.” She sniffed, wiping her nose with her other arm. 

“I’m sorry.” Was all he could really say, staring at his lap. He wasn’t sure that there was any amount of good advice to smooth the sharp edges of that amount of hurt. 

“It’s not your fault.” She said, shaking her head. 

“It’s not yours either,” he reminded her, placing his other hand over hers. “And you’re allowed to feel bad about it. You can let it hurt.” 

“I can’t afford to ‘let it hurt.’”  

“You let me let it hurt.” 

“Because it was hurting you and you deserved to grieve.”

“Then why don’t you?” He pointed out.

“Because if I don’t stay strong, Howe was right and I’m still just ‘playing the man from behind my mother’s skirt’ or whatever the fuck it was that he’d said. And I have to make sure that he’s wrong.” She bristled, a sad edge in her voice.

“You don’t have to prove anything to a man who’s skull is quite literally scattered all over the floor of a dungeon,” he assured her. “And whatever he said about ‘playing the man?’ Whatever that means? He was scared you might actually kill him. Which you did, but people will say anything when they’re scared to die.” He added, eliciting a dry laugh from her.

“You’re not wrong.” She agreed, wiping her eyes and trying to swallow the lump in her throat. Alistair noticed, and gave her hand a comforting squeeze. 

“Eva, please let me be here for you. You’ve got a lot on your shoulders and...let me carry some of it,” He urged her gently, resting his forehead against her temple. “It’s what I’m here for.” Alistair murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. She felt it; creaking and groaning inside her like a burning building about to collapse and her eyes stung and she leaned into Alistair because Maker knows she didn’t have the energy to hold herself up anymore. Her chest suddenly heaved, like she was finally breathing after having held her breath, and he felt her bury her head into his chest, her clenched fists against him as she began to sob; sharp, angry, fiery sobs ripped their way out of her throat, her nails digging into the calloused fat of her palms, her tears burning down her cheeks as she allowed it to hurt and ache and tear her to fucking shreds. She yearned for a time where it wouldn’t hurt like this anymore, that she could swallow it down before it would ever swallow her, for when the torrents would stop racking her body and drowning her. Alistair could do nothing else except hold her, allow her shake under his fingertips and keep her together and his his heart ached for her, for all she’d lost and all she had yet to lose.

The next morning, she would get up, her head sore from the hurt she let loose. The sun would rise, she would eat breakfast, and interact, and tend to what needed tending. She would continue her responsibilities with a gaping wound above her heart, sore and bleeding, and eventually, however slowly it may be, it would stitch itself, scab over, heal over; one day it would be a soft scarring, raised only slightly underneath her fingertips and only noticeable when her skin turned a golden brown during the summer months, a vacant memory of who she used to be. But for the night, she would rip the small bandage she placed over it off, and allow the wound to open. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is trashatacular, art blog is tree_bitchery .


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